


rage, rage against the dying of the light

by logicalspecs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, This is a repost, but yeah i just wanted to keep a version of it on my account so heres this, everyone dies, i accidentally orphaned the original :(, i mean its les mis, relationships can be interpreted as platonic!, this is grim yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: June 6th, 1832.It’s a bloodbath, glorious and brutal. The air is acrid, smoke billowing into the sky like a false signal, a mock cry for help. The barricade is falling, wood splintering and blood pouring into the streets below. Streets that are quiet beyond the echo of gunfire and the screams of righteous fury. The people of Paris are asleep, shielded behind shutters and panes of glass.A fic based on the idea that Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly would still be alive as Enjolras and Grantaire were killed.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	rage, rage against the dying of the light

**Author's Note:**

> hi! as i said in the notes, this is a repost of a fic from back in august, i believe, that i accidentally orphaned. there's nothing changed, aside from i think a few grammar things that i edited in my original google doc since that time. from here on out, this is completely the original fic! :
> 
> this is based on a tumblr post thats been around for a while (probably like back in 2012) by user abitcombustible!
> 
> this is probably the darkest thing i've ever written so huh yeah heed the warnings please!
> 
> this is a mix of the final battle from the brick, the 2012 movie, and my own imaginings so yeah
> 
> hope y'all enjoy :)

_June 6th, 1832._

It’s a bloodbath, glorious and brutal. The air is acrid, smoke billowing into the sky like a false signal, a mock cry for help. The barricade is falling, wood splintering and blood pouring into the streets below. Streets that are quiet beyond the echo of gunfire and the screams of righteous fury. The people of Paris are asleep, shielded behind shutters and panes of glass.

He watches as one of these windows is pulled closed, and while he cannot hear the click of the latch, he feels like a needle in his heart. The pain dulls after a moment, having been replaced by the heavy weight of nothing. He feels cold, despite the summer sun blazing overhead. They’ve been abandoned.

“Please! Open the door!” Combeferre’s voice is raw, scratchy, as his fist cracks against the wood in futile motions. There’s dirt on his face and in his hair, with only two thin trails on his cheeks being cleansed by his tears as he weeps.

Courfeyrac has never seen his best friend cry, and wishes he had died with this statement remaining true. Having to hear the wretched sobs tear from Combeferre’s chest as his fist grows weaker and bloodier in its efforts tears something in Courfeyrac’s own chest, a pain only shared between the closest of people.

Combeferre stumbles backwards, his knees buckling ever so slightly. Enjolras catches him, and Courfeyrac, now blind and deaf to the battle raging around them, is focused enough to see the tremble in their chief’s hands before they curl around Combeferre’s bloodstained sleeve. It’s not Combeferre’s blood, this Courfeyrac knows, but that of their fellow compatriots. The blood of Monsieur Mabeuf. The blood of Bahorel.

Part of him wishes now that he had been felled alongside Bahorel, during that first ambush. Had Marius not saved his life, he would not have known the horrors of watching Gavroche be murdered in front of him, or of watching his fellow men fall in droves, and that would have been a mercy. The other part of him knows that their cause is good and he must live to fight for it, for those that cannot. The people may not have risen today, but they will tomorrow. 

He knows that tomorrow could be years away.

Enjolras shoves Combeferre towards the Corinthe, the place of their final stand, as bullets spray over their heads like a torrential rain. The spark of gunfire is the lightning, and their cacophony the thunder. 

Courfeyrac goes to follow, leaden feet dragging across the ground, when another voice takes up Combeferre’s cries. It’s young and pleading and desperate, a whisper in a storm.

“Please!” Jean Prouvaire wails, a mournful sound that Courfeyrac is sure the poet could capture in beautifully tragic verse. There are tufts of white feathers in his braid, sprinkled like snow. Similar whisps stick to the red that’s pouring along his brow, soaking them a muddy orange, a foul imitation of Prouvaire’s ginger hair that makes Courfeyrac’s stomach curl

Enjolras, having sent Combeferre on his way, returns with a hand outstretched to Prouvaire. For a moment, Courfeyrac marvels at Enjolras’ unbroken skin; there is neither a scratch nor a splinter across his face. A pock of dirt smudges across the bridge of his nose and the residue of gunpowder rends his skin ashen, but his eyes are still ablaze with a light that negates the grey.

Prouvaire sends one more furtive glance at the door, which remains a wall, and grabs Enjolras’ hand with his own. They are both shaking.

Courfeyrac follows the two of them, firing his final bullet at a guard that takes aim at Prouvaire’s turned back. The soldier boy, unlikely to be even a year his senior, drops with a sigh that blows on the wind, and nothing more. There is no grand chorus for this soldier. His eyes are still open, half-lidded, and they stare at Courfeyrac, who runs. His chest burns. He can’t breathe.

Joly is next to him, and there is a space at the doctor’s side that forms a pit in Courfeyrac’s stomach. Unable to stop himself, he glances back, and finds Bossuet lying still on the ground. If he didn’t know better, Courfeyrac might think he was sleeping. The trickle of blood that pours from the corner of Bossuet’s mouth reminds him otherwise.

He feels as though he should be nauseous, that his stomach should be curling and agonizing, but he finds a strange sort of emptiness in its place. Joly sobs next to him, and he wonders why he isn’t crying as well.

They’re a moment from the Corinthe, merely one more step, when Joly crumples, his voice a scream that carves into Courfeyrac’s heart with a serrated blade. Enjolras, who had been guarding their passage, moves deftly and pulls their friend through the entrance, leaving a trail of blood on the cobblestones. The grout has stained crimson, the red running through the divots in a gruesome parody of a river.

The moment Courfeyrac steps through the threshold, Combeferre and Feuilly move to block the door. There is a particular gunshot, close by, that rings out and Courfeyrac wonders why this one has caught his attention. His question is answered as the stranger, the one who executed the spy, dives out the door with a cry of ‘ _Marius!_ ’ on his lips.

The numbing pit in his stomach deepens.

Next to him, Enjolras is clutching Prouvaire’s hand with a white-knuckled grip, grounding the soft-spoken poet as Prouvaire stifles sobs in his throat. His eyes are red and puffed, and the round tip of his nose is flushed deeply. He looks a wreck, his braid having now fallen out completely. His red hair rests in tangled cascades over his shoulders, clashing with the teal of his vest. The night before, Courfeyrac had teased him for his questionable fashion choices, as he has done many times before, but now he wishes for a world where he would live to see another one of Jean Prouvaire’s mismatched outfits.

“The door! We need to barricade the door!” Combeferre calls, voice quick and desperate, and this spurs the rest of them into action. There are few furnishings left inside, but they make hasty work with what’s left. The body of Monsieur Mabeuf lies untouched on a table in the center of the room.

Combeferre makes for the stairs as soon as they’re done, pulling Joly up with him, and Courfeyrac follows. With every step, Joly whimpers, the bullet in his leg killing him agonizingly slowly. Enjolras is behind him, and he has a hatchet in his hand. _To cut down the steps_ , Courfeyrac realises. Feuilly stands alongside Enjolras with a blade of his own.

“Jehan!” Enjolras yells, his voice teetering on panic. Courfeyrac whirls around, tripping on the top step in his haste. His hip hits the landing, but the pain is nothing compared to the ache blooming in his chest as he takes in the scene.

Jean Prouvaire, quiet, cloud-gazing Jean Prouvaire, seethes as he hits one of the guards attempting to break through the door with the butt of an empty gun. _He’s giving us time_ , Courfeyrac realises with dawning horror. Enjolras moves to go help, but Courfeyrac, instinctively, grabs the sleeve of his jacket and holds him back. Neither of them tear their gaze from their friend.

Prouvaire is thrown to the ground as one guard breaks through a window, glass shattering, and his hands skid painfully across the wood. Shards of the pane wash over him like diamonds falling from above. If Jehan feels the pain, he does not show it. His expression is grim and defiant as the guard raises their gun on him. Courfeyrac doesn’t dare breathe.

There are tears in the poet's eyes, but he is unafraid. His tears shall water the seed they have sown. 

“Vive la France! Vive la-” 

The air seems to rush from the room as Jean Prouvaire falls, and in that moment, a cloud passes in front of the sun. The room darkens as his head hits the floor.

Feuilly jumps down the steps with a cry and swings at the guard. It’s over in one clean blow, and the blood sprays in Feuilly’s face, who freezes, looking in blatant horror at his hands. He drops the blade as though it has burned him. It is not the first man Feuilly has killed in the past few hours, but that does not make it any easier. 

Enjolras begins to cut at the steps with a blazing anger in his expression. His lips are pressed thin, and his brow is furrowed in a deep arch. Feuilly picks up his hatchet again and moves to help, pulling himself up the few steps that Enjolras has already taken down. Courfeyrac steadies him with a hand on his shoulder as he wobbles back over the gap.

They have two more steps left when the rest of the guards break through. In the top room, Combeferre has been wrapping Joly’s leg with his cravat, but they both know he’s already lost too much blood. Enjolras grabs Courfeyrac, who is closest to him, and pulls him from the staircase as their makeshift barricade at the door falls. Feuilly doesn’t move fast enough.

The bullet pierces his heart in one clean shot. He falls backwards over the railing and lands next to Prouvaire, the sound of his body hitting the floor resounding in Courfeyrac’s mind. Their faces are turned towards each other, and both their eyes are closed. Feuilly’s cap, which came off as he fell, is trampled on by the guards as they move into the Corinthe.

They have no time to mourn, they never have, as they grab the supply of bottles Enjolras had stocked in the room. They only manage to hit a few of the National Guard before they move past their line of sight, taking position below them.

The café falls silent, and it’s somehow worse than the sounds of fighting. Combeferre’s chest is heaving next to him, his breath catching in weeping sobs. Joly is leaning on Combeferre's shoulder, his face pale and drenched in blood. Combeferre has a protective arm in front of him, as though that could stop a gun’s bullet or a bayonet’s blade. He’s holding a gun in the other hand, pointing it at the stairs. His hand shakes, and Courfeyrac knows there is no ammo left.

Enjolras is grabbing almost desperately at Courfeyrac’s wrist. He looks nearly petrified; his skin is waxy and pallid in colour. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears. His breath is shallow and rapid. His fear is what terrifies Courfeyrac the most.

The morning has fallen quiet. The gunfire outside still echoes, but the only sound in the top room of the Corinthe is their breathing.

Courfeyrac lifts his gaze, and, for barely a second, wonders if that tuft of dark hair in the corner of the room is Grantaire. The next thing he knows is pain, white and scalding.

His stance buckles instantly and he drops. Hitting the floor worsens the pain, its sharp claws digging into his body. The world falls into a sort of daze. He registers distantly that Combeferre and Joly have fallen at his sides, as he has collapsed between them, while Enjolras stands above them.

The morning sun shines through the window and illuminates him, golden and radiant. He looks every bit the Apollo they whisper about. 

Enjolras backs away, out of his line of sight, and Courfeyrac resigns himself to his fate.

A small, wet cough next to him draws attention, and when he turns his leaden head he finds Joly. His black hair has matted to his face, and his eyes are screwed shut. He’s not dead yet, and his breath wheezes past stained red lips. He coughs again, and blood sprays onto Courfeyrac’s face. He wants to throw up.

Combeferre's breathing on his other side is shallow and laboured, each breath coming in weaker and weaker. His glasses have shattered, and the glass has fallen into his eyes. Tears of blood pour down his cheeks.

Courfeyrac can’t bear to watch it anymore, the bile burning in his throat, and turns his gaze to the ceiling. The beams of the Corinthe’s supports blur as the tears finally fill his eyes. He barely registers the pain anymore, strangely detached from his own body.

He hears the National Guard as they climb into the room, but the sound echoes hollow in his ears. There’s a ringing that blankets it all.

The guards step over him, and don’t seem to notice that they are still alive. _They’re after Enjolras_ , he realises, and he prays God will take him before he hears his best friend’s death.

“Vive la République! I’m one of them!” The voice is loud in Courfeyrac’s muffled hearing, and it takes him a moment to place it as Grantaire’s. He wants to smile, but can’t tell if he succeeds. He can’t feel his body anymore.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asks, his voice soft, hesitant.

If Enjolras answers, Courfeyrac does not hear it.

He presses his eyes shut as the gunfire sounds. It’s as piercing as ever, and a hand clasps around his as it rings out. He doesn't need to look to know it’s Combeferre’s. The grip is as tight as either of them can muster.

He feels more than hears the thud as their bodies fall to the floor, and with great effort, cranes his neck to look at the scene. Enjolras is pinned against the wall, and eight red roses bloom across his shirt. His hair is stained a putrid orange, caked with dirt and blood, as it falls in loose curls around his face, which wears a smile. After a moment, he slides down the wall, collapsing at the feet of the National Guard. Blood is smeared like a mock flag where he once stood.

It's there, crumpled on the floor, that Courfeyrac finds Grantaire, who, in turn, had fallen at Enjolras’ feet. There's a half-smile on his face, as though he was never given the chance to finish it. His hand is clasped in Enjolras'.

A sob breaks from Courfeyrac's chest, and he tears his gaze away, only to find himself face to face with Joly's blank eyes. There's a steady trail of blood pouring from the young doctor's lips. He isn’t breathing. Courfeyrac wretches.

He turns the other direction and finds Combeferre's expression screwed up in pain. His breaths are whistling in his chest as he tilts head to where he believes Courfeyrac to be, bloody tears creating red streams that wash away the dirt on his cheeks.

"Are they..." Combeferre trails off, his voice breaking harshly in the silent echo of gunfire. His bleeding eyes remain closed as he speaks.

Courfeyrac can only manage a whimper, just barely, and Combeferre's expression breaks further. He chokes out one last sob, and his chest falls still. His hand releases Courfeyrac’s, who still clutches at him desperately.

“No, no, no, please, ‘Ferre.” His voice is a ghost of breath. Unbeknownst to him, one of the guards notices this, as it is thunderous in the silence after the report. They raise their gun. 

“Please, ‘Ferre, I don’t want to die alo-”

A final shot cracks as the city of Paris wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> haha oof
> 
> hmu on my tumblr @ eveninglesmis if you have any requests or just want to yell about les mis! i also draw sometimes :)
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


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